


we love (the only way of keeping a golden falling leaf still)

by Victoryindeath2



Series: deeper than the ink [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (i don't have time for a series yet here i am), Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Tolkien-verse, Valinor, also despite what i said about the fic being sappy, also this fic series will more or less fit into TolkienGirl's Tolkienverse fics so, and realized Maedhros and Fingon absolutely got matching tattoos, birthday present for TolkienGirl, by tumblr user wordsofnoconsequence, does this fic get sappy? maybe, even now Maedhros feels torn, is the tattoo cheesy? i really don't care, it's for Emma it wouldn't be right not to make her suffer on her birthday, not the Gold Rush AU, one day i listened to Brother by Kodaline, oops did I say series, problems with love and loyalty, references may be dropped, the cousins go to the beach, there is also pain, title of fic from the poem lonely most loneseome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 03:22:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19054234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Victoryindeath2/pseuds/Victoryindeath2
Summary: Even Findekáno’s anchoring existence does not give him peace today.Perhaps nothing ever will.(how long can the hope remain, to be a son of Fëanor and still to grip hands with a son of Ñolofinwë only in friendship and never in bitter quarrel?)





	we love (the only way of keeping a golden falling leaf still)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TolkienGirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/gifts).



The sound of the pebble striking the skin of Findekáno’s palm is soothing in its steady repetition, steady until he drops the little grey stone. It falls, glancing off his cheek, and lands in the hot sand.

Maitimo opens his eyes, having lost his point of meditation, and stares up at a blue-white sky and the seagull that circles, wings lifted in drifting paralysis, until it sinks out of his sight somewhere between his callused bare feet and the sea.

Findekáno laughs at his own clumsiness, and Maitimo would too, except a strange melancholy is crushing his heart in waves, like the saltwater beating against the shoreline not a hundred feet from them. It has been three minutes, and he still has not been able to reply to his cousin’s proposal. 

Even Findekáno’s anchoring existence does not give him peace today.

Perhaps nothing ever will.

(how long can the hope remain, to be a son of Fëanor and still to grip hands with a son of Ñolofinwë only in friendship and never in bitter quarrel?)

“It’s only an idea. We don’t have to do it.” Findekáno is so young—so eager to smooth cool salve over all wounds whether they be red-raw or merely foreseen, like mist rolling down from the distant mountains in the early morn, crawling past quivering willows and over green fields before sinking into the heady, rich soil of Maitimo’s home.

If Maitimo could only let Findekáno have his way—but if Atar demands singular loyalty, the crime would be too great, to betray an inked symbol as good as an oath. “We don’t have to do it,” Findekáno repeats, more quietly this time. He is not laughing anymore, but a smile still plays on his lips.

Maitimo rolls his head sideways to look at his cousin and breaks silence at last. “Then no.”

 

(that awful night only a few months ago, he found it easy to fall asleep on his cousin’s still narrow shoulder...was that a betrayal, finding peace where Atar was not?)

(loyalty, loyalty— _love_ )

 

The sea still breathes on, harsh and achingly sweet in its song.

Maitimo is still lying flat on his back, without tunic or boots or the silver jewelry he loves so much. His shoulder blades dig into the sand as he soaks up the warm rays of Laurelin’s fruit and tries, rather desperately, not to listen to the cries of the scavenging seagulls that scatter themselves across the beach. He’s also still trying not to let Findekáno talk him into Telerin nonsense.

(if it is nonsense, does it really mean anything?)

Maitimo tries to remain firm, and Findekáno protests he cares not, and Maitimo can tell he lies. It’s the way his cousin—clad like himself, only in leggings much more ragged—sits up and leans forward in the sand, propping his chin on his knees, drawing in the sand with a single finger. It’s the way Findekáno has brought up Findaráto’s swirling, intricate shoulder tattoo five times in the past two days, and it’s the way none of those times were in the presence of any of Maitimo’s brothers—let alone Atar.

_I do not doubt, Nelyo, that in times past your cousins have proven amiable companions, but loyalty is proven in sweat and sacrifice, in secrets kept and nobility honored. As my eldest son, you are far above the likes of Findaráto, and you must never forget that Findekáno is his father’s son._

Findekáno is his father’s son, and is it disloyalty to thank Ñolofinwë for raising such a son? A brother to drink with in both the best and the darkest of times, and a shoulder to sleep on when the night and future oppress?

Maitimo grimaces, closes his eyes. Delves his fingers into the sand, pushing them deep, deep down, until they find cool shelter.

They have been lying in the rays of Laurelin for too long, and no doubt Maitimo’s complexion will rival that of Carnistir’s on any normal day.

He says as much to Findekáno, who just grins and shrugs his shoulders comfortably.

“At best it will make your freckles stand out, and at worst it will give you something to remember this little trip by,” Findekáno says. He scoops up a handful of sand and dumps every burning grain on Maitimo’s chest. “There! A penalty for refusing to acquiesce to my request!”

Maitimo yelps, rolls over, and kicks Findekáno’s shin before he can scramble out of the way.

“I’ll give _you_ something to remember,” Maitimo threatens, kicking for a second time at his cousin.

Findekáno, however, leaps to his feet and dances far out of reach. His black hair—not yet dry from the hour they spent fighting the ocean, leaping through and over waves—sparkles like it is encrusted with gold and gems.

It is only sand, however, and Maitimo shakes his head. His own hair is a tangled mess, unused to the air by the sea and the salt of the water. The fringe angled over his right eye curls like he has been visiting the hot-rooms of Tirion.

(he has not visited Tirion since the birth of the twins, since that terrifying moonlit ride when he thought he might lose Amil and Atar both, and little brothers never held gentle in the crooks of his arms)

“Rise, Russandol!”

Findekáno is in a ridiculous mood. He circles Maitimo, saying nothing more, only beckoning and elevating his fists, provoking a fight.

Maitimo _tries_ to smother the mirth rising in his chest, as well as the wild notion of dragging Findekáno down to the waves and tossing him in.

Maitimo could. He’s strong enough, and Findekáno would probably be laughing too hard to stop him.

In this moment, thinking such thoughts, it is impossible to consider the responsibilities of an eldest brother, an eldest son. It is impossible to think of friendship as rebellion, when warmth and ease and heart-peace wash over Maitimo so.

Taking a deep breath, forcing his eyebrows to knit together as though he were cross, Maitimo blinks.

“If I had known you would be this irritating, Findekáno, I would have asked Káno to come in your stead,” he says. He reaches behind him, finds the strap of a green cloth bag, and tugs it toward himself.

Findekáno looks offended.

“Makalaurë,” he says, deliberately using his cousin’s full name. “Makalaurë would have done nothing but walk up and down the shore composing songs and yelling at you for speaking even a word. You know how the ocean affects him. It’s worse than sunset glow crowning the horizon.”

Maitimo nods, conceding the point, and rummages through his bag. 

He takes out his charcoal and his threaded book of paper and begins to sketch.

Findekáno sits down on the sand, back to back with Maitimo. Their shoulders do not align, for Findekáno is not as tall as his cousin (never will be), but Findekáno seems quite content, sighing as he brushes Maitimo's hair to the side and nestles the back of his head against the nape of Maitimo's neck.

Maitimo almost hums at the contact.

What are you drawing?” Findekáno asks.

Maitimo sketches the lines, the arrows, the feathers. He is tempted to center the compass with Atar’s star, if only to lessen the blow when Atar must find out at last, but he cannot do that to Findekáno. Nor can he use the sun of the High King, for to do so might test Atar overmuch, who looks upon his half-brother’s children as lesser descendants of Finwë.

The design then, is simple. Where _North_ would be, he draws the tengwa for _F_ , for Findekáno.

Findekáno has shifted so that he rests his chin on Maitimo’s broad shoulder, looking over him in rapt attention. 

“I will add more intricate lines later,” Maitimo says, flushing, ashamed of both the tattoo’s plainness and sentimentality. “This one for me. Another for you, with the tengwa for _M_. Though our fathers turn away in strife, we will always look to each other.”

He leans to the right, away from Findekáno, and steals a glance at him out of the corner of his eye. “If you wish, we could find an artist to ink it tomorrow, ere we part for home. Place it on our shoulders, in imitation of Findaráto, or perhaps upon our chests.”

Findekáno smiles, and Maitimo’s grip on his charcoal loosens.

“Yes,” Findekáno says. “Right above our hearts. I like that.” He shifts again, so that he sits once more back to back with Maitimo, but Maitimo can sit no longer or the tears that threaten his cheekbones will well forth and descend.

It is not weakness that tempts him to weep when he is happy, but the strength of relief.

Maitimo leaps to his feet, and his sketchbook falls to the ground just as stinging wind arises, throwing a sheet of sand over the charcoal tattoo.

Findekáno falls back, his support removed, and he cries out in surprise.

“Maitimo!”

Maitimo just laughs, for the wind blows his copper hair wildly about his eyes and his heart is bursting with a freedom of emotion that he rarely allows, for Findekáno loves him just as Maitimo loves all his brothers, and nothing Atar ever does will bitter this sweet wine.

“Do you think you can catch me?” Maitimo chaffs his cousin. “Has your nimbleness at last caught up to my height?” He towers in youthful glory above Findekáno, who glares up from the ground.

“You dare to mock me?” Findekáno says, but his eyes glitter in anticipation and preparation, and then he too springs from the sand, and Maitimo leads him a merry chase down to the water, whereupon Maitimo whirls about, wraps his bare arms around Findekáno and strains every muscle and lifts him and throws him into the sparkling waves.

Findekáno rises, spluttering curses only Makalaurë ever uses.

In this moment, Maitimo fears no wrath of cousin, no wrath of Atar. He has many brothers, and one more again, one so close to his heart that the tattoo in his sketchbook will be superfluous to the loyalty of his blood and skin and soul.

(Findekáno is so young, and Maitimo too)

“I will stand by you forever,” Maitimo whispers, letting the words float away in the wind, so that Findekáno will never hear them.

 

 _You would follow him anywhere_ , Findekáno will spit one evening in grief and hurt, _and you would call it love and duty._

 _Your brothers are_ here, Makalaurë will say cruelly one fire-flamed day, when Findekáno is on the other side of a sea.

Findekáno and Makalaurë have always known Maitimo too well. He loves Atar too much not to follow him, and he loves his brothers too much to abandon them, but— 

Why must loyalty be a burden to love? _Why_?

 

When the ships burn, and Atar denies his eldest’s desperate plea with a word and a blow, Maitimo stands rooted in the shifting sand and water, and watches friendship burn away.

There can be no hope now.

Maitimo pulls at his torn shirt, so that it covers his bleeding chest. He does not dare look to see if the hot, seeping liquid be red or blue.

 _Forgive me_.


End file.
